


Wings of Time

by thepensword



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Big Sam is angry, Bits of angst, Bits of fluff, Bobby just wants to help, Both Deans are upset, Castiel is not full-strength, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Gen, John doesn't get it, Little Sam is confused, Lucifer is a brat, Time Travel, Too many Winchesters, Weechesters, discontinued, multi-chapter, season five
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 23:54:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5475251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepensword/pseuds/thepensword
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things were bad enough when Crowley invoked a spell to force the Winchesters to face their past—literally. But now a rift has been torn in time and Lucifer is getting involved—just another day in the life of Sam and Dean. "Have fun with this one, boys!" (Or: Winchester meets Weechester.)</p><p>[DISCONTINUED]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. This story is not yet completed, though there are nineteen chapters already written. I'm fairly new to AO3, and so this was originally posted on Fanfiction.net under the username Bianca Valdez. If you've already read it there, don't worry, I'll continue to update on both sites.
> 
> This was my first non-crossover, which I began over the summer and have continued to update sporadically. Here I shall post the chapters on a weekly basis, but once my posting has caught up to my writing updates will come irregularly. Just so you're prepared.
> 
> Chapters start out on the short side, but average length grows as the story goes on. This story is not particularly graphic and does not make use of the worse profanities. The latter is mostly because I, at age fourteen, do not feel particularly comfortable using them. Occasionally the 'b' word will be used simply because at certain times I feel it is necessary, but it will most likely be written in asterisks. Eventually I'll get comfortable enough to go through and type out the word, but I'm not quite at that point yet.
> 
> This story is set in a bit of an AU for 5.20, when the boys confront Crowley on the Colt's ineffectiveness and he informs them of Pestilence's whereabouts. I'll try to keep the spoilers inside of s5, but I might allude to later seasons. 
> 
> As a side note, the incantation used in this chapter is a completely random thing I spat out using Google Translate.
> 
> Ok, wow, that was a lot of talking for a note. Good job getting through that, and I hope you enjoy!

Crowley wasn’t pleased.

His day had been going so nicely—killed a virgin, exorcised a pro-Lucifer demon, made some pretty good deals, condemned a few souls to eternal torture in the pit—and now, as icing on the cake, he’d _liberated_ a spell book from an old witch. She wasn’t using it for anything useful anyway, so he’d just gone ahead and taken it off her hands for her.

As well as her soul. He still thought that was a nice touch.

But now, just as he was getting ready to bury himself in his beautiful new book, who had shown up? Who’d found him in his warehouse and spoiled his oh-so-perfect day?

The Winchesters, of course.

Crowley really hated the Winchesters.

“Hello, boys,” he said with a smile, calmly ignoring the guns pointed at his face.

Sam the Moose stepped forward with a snarl. “Did you know?” he growled, tightening his grip on his weapon. Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“Pardon?”

To his left, Dean snorted cynically. “Like you don’t know _exactly_ what we’re talking about.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Sorry, boys, I haven’t the faintest. And you can put those guns away; you know they won’t do much but irritate me.” He waved his hand and the metal in their weapons heated up, forcing the Winchesters to unclasp their hands. Two satisfying clanks assured Crowley that the weapons were on the floor.

“The Colt,” spat Dean. “It didn’t work.”

Both Crowley’s eyebrows flew up at that, and he turned slowly. “Really?” he asked. Shame. Would’ve been such a nice fix to his Satan problem. Hm. Well, then.

“So I assume that means that Lucifer still walks?” he said mockingly. “Wonderful. I suppose that’s too bad for you, then. Guess you’ll just have to say ‘yes’ to your respective angels.”

Dean lunged forward, brandishing that damn demon-killing knife. “We lost two of our friends, you son of a b****!” he growled, thrusting the blade under Crowley’s chin. “Did you know it wouldn’t work?”

“What wouldn’t work?”

“The damn Colt!” yelled Dean. Behind him, Crowley could see Sam’s hands curling into fists as he bent to reclaim his gun.

“Hm. No, sorry boys,” said Crowley. “I honestly thought it would work. Remember, I want Lucifer gone as much as you do. So _suck it up and do what you’ve got to do, morons!_ ” The last bit came out as an angered shout, and Dean stepped back a bit in surprise.

That gave Crowley just the window he needed. He lunged for his spell book and opened it at random. His eyes fell upon the first spell on the page and a small smile spread across his face.

“Et dimittam te, ut cruor temporis cursu ventis iam audet! Minores pedum vestigia retro redeant vestra et filii vestri non loco aut cadendum esse!”

The Winchesters stared at him with undisguised horror as the room began to fill with a blindingly white light. “What did you do?!” shouted Sam.

Crowley flashed a grin. “Have fun with this one, boys!”

And then he was gone.

 


	2. Flashback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, okay, so I hadn't realized how ridiculously short these earlier chapters are. Well, they are, and it's absurd. Whatever. Enjoy!

**Then**

_The Winchesters stared at him with undisguised horror as the room began to fill with a blindingly white light. “What did you do?!” shouted Sam._

_Crowley flashed a grin. “Have fun with this one, boys!”_

_And then he was gone._

**Now**

When Sam awoke, he found himself tied to a chair.

“Wha…?” he mumbled, slowly opening his eyes. His head hurt and each blink brought afterimages of that bright, bright light. Blearily, he peered at his surroundings only to find that he was in….a motel room?

Sam closed his eyes again and shook himself. When he looked a second time, the motel room was still there.

There was nothing spectacular about it. It was, in fact, just about the same as every other motel room he’d stayed in over the last twenty-something years. Something about it seemed eerily familiar, though Sam couldn’t put his finger on what made it so.

Looking down, he struggled against the ropes that tied his hands behind the chair. They were tight, and the knot was so professionally done that Sam felt oddly like he’d been the one to tie it.

“Quit struggling. There’s no way you’re getting out.”

Sam’s head snapped up and his eyes hurtled to his right. A teenage boy stood there, holding a loaded gun lazily in his crossed arms. Familiar green eyes gazed out from a face that was too serious for its age, a deep frown set in the young features.

“Who are you?” growled the boy in a low voice, but Sam couldn’t stop staring.

“Dean?” he breathed.

“What?”

“Nothing, sorry. Nothing,” said Sam, shaking his head. “I just…whoa.”

The boy, who looked so terrifyingly like a young Dean that Sam couldn’t imagine him as anyone else, raised the gun and brandished it at Sam’s face. “Answer my question! Who are you, and what did you do with Sammy?”

Sam froze. Everything clicked into place. The strange spell, the white light, Crowley’s parting words, the familiarity of the room, the boy who looked like Dean…

“I’m, um…” Sam scrambled frantically for a believable alias. “Ash,” he finally spat out, thinking of his now-dead friend. “Ash…Smith.”

Dean (for that was who the boy was, undoubtedly) raised an eyebrow. “All right, _Ash_ ,” he sneered. “Now answer the second question before I blow your brains out.” He moved closer and pushed the gun against Sam’s head. “Where did you come from, and what did you do with my brother?”

“Whoa, wait a second,” said Sam, leaning back away from the barrel of the gun. “I…uh…I don’t know.”

“Sure,” snarled Dean, pulling the chair forward. “Try again.”

“No, no really!” Sam said frantically. “Listen, kid, I didn’t do anything to your brother. I promise!”

“Then where is he?!” Dean sounded near hysterical at this point. “You appeared in our room in a flash of light, and now Sammy’s gone! Maybe you don’t think I’ll shoot you because I’m a kid, but I will! And even if I don’t, you’re in for a _world_ of pain when my dad gets home!”

Sam then participated in some world-class Winchester on-the-spot thinking.

“Hey, slow down,” he said, and if his hands had been free he would have raised them submissively. “Look, I’m a hunter too. Whatever it was that took your brother, I was hunting it. Not sure what it was, not sure what it did, but it somehow sent me here and took Sam. I’m not here to hurt you, and I didn’t steal your brother.”

The barrel of the gun lowered just slightly, but Dean’s expression was still guarded. “How do I know you’re not lying?”

“You don’t,” said Sam. “Here, splash me with some holy water. I’m not a demon. You got a silver knife? We can try that too, and it won’t hurt me because I’m not a monster.” With a sigh, he gazed beseechingly at his brother’s young self. “Promise.”

Dean stared at him silently for a good minute and a half. “Yeah, ok,” he said finally. “But if you’re lying, and you hurt me or Sam…” he let the threat hang, glancing at Sam meaningfully.

“Great.” Sam let out a sigh of relief, glad that he was no longer in danger (If young Dean shot older Sam now, what would that do for their timeline?) of getting shot in the head. Grimacing, he tugged once at his bonds. “Hey, you mind untying me?”

Green eyes regarded him coolly for another moment or so. “Fine,” Dean said reluctantly. Out came a knife, and Sam was soon free.

“So what’s your name?” asked Sam tentatively. Not that he didn’t already know; the question was completely for Dean’s benefit.

“I’m Dean.”


	3. Flashforward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again...ridiculously short. Hey, you know what? I'm gonna post two chapters, just because they combine to the length of one. Boom.

**Then**

_The Winchesters stared at him with undisguised horror as the room began to fill with a blindingly white light. “What did you do?!” shouted Sam._

_Crowley flashed a grin. “Have fun with this one, boys!”_

_And then he was gone._

 

**Now**

It took a split second for Dean’s mind to plot out the situation. Crowley was gone, blinding light filling the room, and Sam was way too close to the center of the blast. He tried to reach out, to shove his brother out of the way, but he wasn’t fast enough.

It was like there was an angel in the room, but without the sound. The air was so still and silent that Dean felt as if the world had faded into nonexistence, leaving nothing but the light. The light was everything. There was nothing else.

And then it cleared, and Dean sprang back into action.

“Sam!” he yelled, the words coming too late. “Sammy!”

There was no answer.

Panicked, Dean turned in a circle, eyes darting all around, hand tightening around the blade of the demon knife. “Crowley, you son of a b****!” he bellowed. “Bring him back!”

“Wh-who are you?”

Dean whipped around, right hand brandishing the knife. He wasn’t alone, as he’d thought. In fact, someone was standing exactly where Sam had been just a moment before. Whoever it was, he was small, and judging by the pitch of the voice, young.

And Dean knew him. He knew that hair, that voice, that build. And when the hazel eyes were lifted from underneath the too-long bangs, Dean knew those too.

If Dean were less well trained, he would have dropped the knife right then and there, because standing before him was his little brother.

His little brother…at age ten.

“Sam?”

Sam stared at him for several seconds, brow furrowed in a familiar expression of confusion mixed with fear.

“How do you know my—“ his words were cut off as he fell to his knees, a small moan escaping his lips. Dean rushed forward and caught him before he collapsed onto the concrete.

“Leave me alone!” Sam cried, trying to push away from the man who was, to him, still a stranger. He was weak, though, and the effort caused his eyes to roll back in his head, before he passed out completely.

Dean dropped him and took a step back, realizing a bit late that rushing towards a clearly impossible person was perhaps not brilliant. Trying to make amends for his impulsive non-thinking, he pulled out his flask of holy water and drizzled some on ‘Sam’.

No reaction.

He tried one of his silver knives.

Still nothing.

Crowley had done something, that was for sure. The question was what? What _exactly_ did he do? De-age Sam? Pull him through time? Pull _Dean_ through time? And how was he supposed to fix it?

Completely at a loss for what to do, Dean did the only thing that he knew, instinctively, was always the right choice.

He took care of his little brother.

“All right, come on, sport,” he said, stowing his assorted weaponry. Reaching down he scooped up the boy—damn, Sammy used to be _small—_ before slinging him over his shoulder and heading back to the Impala.

 

* * *

 

Sam awoke to the familiar and comforting sound of the Impala’s engine, but he immediately knew something was wrong. The growl was closer, as if he was in the front seat. Sam never rode shotgun; Dean always claimed it first and refused to resolve it with their time-old problem solver: Rock, Paper, Scissors. This was probably due to the fact that Sammy always one, but the young hunter found it unfair anyways. Dad usually had to step in with a gruff, “When you’re older, son.” Dean would then give him that smug look: one eyebrow raised, lips peeled in a cocky smile.

Jerk.

So why was Sam in the front seat now? And why did his head hurt so much?

It smelled different, too. Less like Dad—leather and gun smoke and his own special something— and more like….honestly, more like Dean. Still leather, but older, somehow. Gun smoke, yes, but less pungent. And instead of that unique Dad-smell….was that hamburgers?

Plus the underlying scent of Dean, which was so much _Dean_ that you could put it in a bottle with his name on it. Dean-smell was stronger than Dad-smell—or at least it was in Sam’s mind, because Dean had always been there. Sam had been raised on that smell, more so even then Dad’s.

Certainly more than Mom’s. He’d only caught a whiff of her when him and Dean had found a shoebox of old photographs tucked away in Bobby’s cabin.

It had made Dad cry, though.

So now here Sam was, enveloped in the smell of Dean, in Dean’s seat, with a raging headache and really, really, _really_ loud music pounding in his ears.

Had that been there before, or had someone turned it up?

“Rise and shine, Sammy boy!”

The voice was strange, and Sam was sure he’d never heard it before, and yet something about it was terrifyingly familiar. For a moment he thought it was Dad, before changing his mind. Dean? No, too low, too mature, but something in the way he said Sam’s name was so uniquely Dean that it couldn’t possibly be anyone else.

“I know you’re awake, Sam, so quit pretending.”

Sam opened his eyes and slowly turned his head towards the driver’s seat.

It wasn’t Dad. It wasn’t Dean.

It was a man, wearing Dad’s old leather jacket, the one Dean had so proudly inherited two years ago at age twelve. It was a man with Dean’s brownish-blond hair. It was a man with Dean’s green eyes.

Sam’s eyes took this all in, as well as the gun tucked lazily in the man’s pocket. Then he did the natural thing.

He lunged forward, grabbed the gun, clicked off the safety, put his finger on the trigger, and pointed it at his captor’s face.

The man cursed and swerved off the road.

“Who are you?” demanded Sam. “How do you know my name? What do you want with me? What did you do with my family?”

The man raised both eyebrows in a _very_ Dean-like gesture, at the same time raising his hands in surrender. “Whoa, there. Slow down, cowboy.”

Sam jabbed the gun closer. “Who are you?!” he repeated, his voice rising hysterically.

The man heaved a sigh (again, terrifyingly like Dean’s own exhalations) and put his hands down. “All right, listen, pal. Here’s how this is gonna work. I’m gonna tell you my name, and you’re going to believe it, ‘cuz it’s true. And you’re not going to freak out, and you’re not gonna shoot me in the head. Got it?”

Sam stared at him. What?

The stranger seemed to take his silence as an affirmation. “Great. The name’s Dean. Your brother, Dean.”

This man, Sam decided, was insane. Completely insane. He also had Dad’s car, Dean’s jacket, and Dad’s music playing from the tapes.

_If you can’t fight, run. We’ll come find you._

Those were the rules. That’s what Dad taught him. And even though Sam was the one with the gun, one look at this lunatic’s build and his tough face let Sammy know that he was outmatched.

So he ran.

Shoving the door of the Impala open with sudden force, Sam slid out and hit the ground running. He took off down the road, gun in hand, brown hair bobbing. His breath made clouds in the frosty air, and his lungs seized a bit from the sudden cold.

Sam was a hunter. He’d been training since before he could remember. And even though he was short, he had long legs, so altogether Sam was a fast runner.

But something was wrong.

His head still hurt. His legs ached with each stride. His vision swam.

And then he collapsed, the last sound in his ears the roar of an engine behind him.

 


	4. Ash Smith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! Second chapter of your Sunday update. Wallah.

**Then**

_When Sam awoke, he found himself tied to a chair._

_Everything clicked into place. The strange spell, the white light, Crowley’s parting words, the familiarity of the room, the boy who looked like Dean…_

_“I’m, um…” Sam scrambled frantically for a believable alias. “Ash,” he finally spat out, thinking of his now-dead friend. “Ash…Smith.”_

_“All right,_ Ash _. Where did you come from, and what did you do with my brother?”_

_“Look, I’m a hunter too. Whatever it was that took your brother, I was hunting it. Not sure what it was, not sure what it did, but it somehow sent me here and took Sam. I’m not here to hurt you, and I didn’t steal your brother.”_

_“So what’s your name?” asked Sam tentatively. Not that he didn’t already know; the question was completely for Dean’s benefit._

_“I’m Dean.”_

**Now**

Dean wasn’t sure what to think.

The man—Ash—made him nervous, there was no denying it. Perhaps it was his age, or his build, or his Sasquatchian height. All were viable reasons, another being his sudden appearance in the motel room, which, of course, was accompanied by Sam’s disappearance.

He had every reason to be wary. Yet none of the above were reasons for his unease.

Ash seemed familiar. Not like déjà vu, or like a face similar to someone you know, or features shared by a photograph in an advertisement. No, Dean felt, deep down, _fundamentally_ , that he knew this man.

Which was completely insane, of course. Dean had never met him in his life. And _Ash Smith_? Come on. There was _no way_ that was his real name. So if Ash wasn’t here for nefarious reasons, why did he find it necessary to supply Dean with an alias?

What was he hiding?

Dean stood slumped against the counter, glaring sullenly at Ash as he sat at the table of the motel’s small kitchenette. The man’s brow was wrinkled as he poured over that week’s newspapers.

“Got anything?”

Ash looked up, startled. “Uh…I don’t know,” he admitted. “But listen, there’s several suspicious deaths in the area. This one guy—“

“I know,” Dean interrupted. “I’ve read all the articles. I’m the one who found the case.”

“So you’re already on it?” asked Ash. “Is that where your dad is?”

Ash’s intuition was eerie when it came to these things. Dean had mentioned his dad before, mentioned that they were hunters, so it wasn’t that far a stretch to that conclusion. But the other hunter said it so matter-of-factly, like he somehow _knew_ he was right. He’d used the same tone when guessing Dean’s age (Fourteen), asking if they had the last papers from that week (as if he was certain they did), estimating when Dad would be back (‘So when will he be back? Six days? Seven?’), guessing where the weapons were hidden (in the closet, under the mattress, in the coat rack), and even finding the knife that Dean hid under his pillow and making him swear not to stab Ash in the middle of the night, or when he was woken up in the morning.

“Yeah,” said Dean gruffly in response to the earlier inquiry. Unable to stand it, a question sprung unbidden from his lips. “How do you know?”

Ash looked up at him again. “Sorry?”

“You just seem to know these things. You ask it like a question, but you seem like you already know the answer. How do you do that?”

The older hunter stared at him for several long moments, seemingly at a loss for words. “I…uh,” he cleared his throat. “I don’t know. I guess, just, intuition?”

Dean’s eyebrow flew up and the suspicious answer. “Huh.”

“Yeah.”

Silence descended on the room again.

“Are you psychic?”

“What?!” Ash almost fell backwards out of this chair this time. “What makes you say that?”

Dean crossed his arms stubbornly. “Well, are you?”

“No! Of course not!” Ash huffed and turned back to his papers, but his eyes flitted to look back at Dean nervously.

Wow. Not suspicious at all.

“So do you know what it is?”

Dean looked back at the inquisitive face, the big hazel eyes looking at him curiously. Wait a minute, he _knew_ that expression.

That was Sammy’s expression.

 _No._ Dean shook himself free of the thought. Ash looked a bit like Sam, so what? People can look similar without it meaning anything.

Those _eyes_ though.

“You mean the creature Dad’s hunting?”

Ash nodded. “Yeah.”

“Banshee, we think. Dad said it’d be a tricky one, so he shouldn’t be back for a little while, but he’ll handle it. He always handles it. He’s the best hunter in the world.”

Dean honestly wasn’t sure where that last part came from, but he felt for some reason that he needed to reinforce Dad’s awesomeness to this strange hunter. Who knew, Ash might think _he_ was the best hunter. Dean had to set that straight.

A small smile spread itself across Ash’s lips. “Is he?” he asked, sounding amused.

“Definitely. Why, you think you know someone better?”

Ash closed his eyes briefly. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Who?” he challenged.

Another smile graced his face and he looked up at Dean. “A friend.” There was laughter in his tone, like they had shared a joke and only he knew the punch line. But it was tinged with a sort of bittersweet loneliness, as if he was remembering someone special who he couldn’t quite reach.

Who was this guy? Obviously he wasn’t telling Dean everything, so what was he hiding? And not for one second did Dean buy that story about him ‘hunting the thing that stole Sammy’.

No, Dean didn’t trust ‘Ash’ one bit. So he decided to do something that he should have done right off the bat.

Dean was going to call Dad.

* * *

 

_“John Winchester.”_

“Dad, it’s me, Dean.”

_“Dean? Son, I’m in the middle of a hunt. This had better be something important.”_

“Sammy’s missing.”

Silence on the other end.

It was night. Ash was sleeping, his humongous form sprawled out across the couch where he’d crashed. Dean stood outside the motel, quietly talking to Dad. He didn’t trust Ash; it was time to find out if he was really a hunter or not.

“Dad? You still there?” The quiet seemed to stretch on too far, suggesting that Dad had hung up, but Dean could faintly hear the sound of John’s heavy breathing.

Dad was panicking.

_“What happened? Tell me everything.”_

Dean took a deep breath, shooting a glance towards the motel door. “You ever heard of a hunter called Ash Smith?”

_“What?! Dean, is there someone there with you?”_

“Well, yeah, but Dad—“

_“Dammit! All right. Sit tight, son, I’ll be there by morning. Don’t let him out of your sight for one moment. Stay on guard, keep a weapon on you at all times, and don’t let him know you suspect anything. Be careful, Dean!”_

“Dad, wait—“

_Click._

Dean stared at the phone in his hand, silently cursing himself for not explaining the situation better. Now Dad was on his way. He’d abandoned his hunt and was tearing towards them to save his youngest son, filled with the intent and purpose of turning Ash into ground meat.

“Crap.”

* * *

 

There was something wrong with Dean.

Most people wouldn’t notice it, but the two of them had been together practically their whole lives, and Sam had learned to pick up on the little things.

Such as the way his brother kept rubbing his neck. And mussing up his hair. And furrowing his eyebrows.

Sam noticed it the minute he’d gotten up. Dean was a good liar, but Sam was the one person he couldn’t fool. But if he was lying, he must have his reasons, so Sam decided to play along.

It was 9:00 in the morning, and golden sunlight flooded through the windows of the motel. Sam reached down to grab his flannel shirt and jacket, which he’d discarded last night before going to sleep. With a large yawn, he tucked his long arms into the sleeves of the first layer.

“So you got anything in the fridge, or—“

The door swung open with a bang to reveal the gun-wielding figure of John Winchester.

 

 

 


	5. A Hard Day's Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which both Sams feel very, very lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehe. I was supposed to post this yesterday. Whoops, sorry. Here it is now. Enjoy!

**Then**

_The Winchesters stared at him with undisguised horror as the room began to fill with a blindingly white light. “What did you do?!” shouted Sam._

_Crowley flashed a grin. “Have fun with this one, boys!”_

_“I’m, um…” Sam scrambled frantically for a believable alias. “Ash,” he finally spat out, thinking of his now-dead friend. “Ash…Smith.”_

_“Sammy’s missing.”_

_“Dammit! All right. Sit tight, son, I’ll be there by morning. Don’t let him out of your sight for one moment. Stay on guard, keep a weapon on you at all times, and don’t let him know you suspect anything. Be careful, Dean!”_

_The door swung open with a bang to reveal the gun-wielding figure of John Winchester._

_“Great. The name’s Dean. Your brother, Dean.”_

_This man, Sam decided, was insane._

_If you can’t fight, run. We’ll come find you._

_So he ran._

_Sammy collapsed, the last sound in his ears the roar of an engine behind him._

* * *

 

**Now**

The desk girl had looked at him funny when Dean had entered the motel carrying a ten-year-old over his shoulder, but he’d flashed his best smile and assured her that ‘my kid brother’s tuckered out after such a long day, you know kids’ and she’d let it slide. Hopefully she wasn’t calling the police at this moment.

Even if she was, that wasn’t his biggest problem. His biggest problem was Sammy.

The kid was passed out on the motel bed. Dean had checked him over, and he seemed fine, though unconscious. Probably had something to do with being wrenched through time…

Something stirred inside Dean that he hadn’t recognized in a long time. Oh, it had always been there, but it’d been a while since it had emerged in full form like this. The need to protect his little brother, the will to be with him and shield him from the pain…

He’d failed in latter years, failed to keep Sam safe. Sam had been battered and bruised in so many ways, both mentally and physically, and try as he might, Dean couldn’t stop it. He’d even been the cause of some of that pain.

So he’d given up. Not completely, but something caved inside him. He would still look out for Sam, always, but he’d begun to realize that he couldn’t protect his brother forever. Sam had to grown up eventually, and Dean had to let him do it. He’d given up; he was done.

And now here was Sam, young again, naïve and fragile and so much happier. He’d lost Mom, but he’d never really known her, and sure, he didn’t have the apple-pie life he wanted, but he was alive. He had Dad. He had Dean. They blazed around the country in a flame of heroics, hunting things down and saving lives. Here was little Sammy, unburdened by the knowledge of demon blood and angels and Lucifer. Here was a Sammy who hadn’t been to Hell. Who hadn’t left the life only to be dragged back in by Jessica’s death. Who still believed in the good inside everyone.

Here was a Sammy who still needed Dean.

And Dean would be damned if he wouldn’t step up to that responsibility.

 

* * *

 

Sam stared at the figure silhouetted in the doorway, uncomprehending.

_Dad?_

Of course, he’d known all along that in this time, John was still alive. But he’d been off hunting, and Sam had thought maybe he could get home before he returned.

And yet here he was. Now Dean’s early discomfort made sense. He must have called Dad and told him about the situation.

So…from Dad’s perspective, he was a potentially insane maybe-hunter who was a threat to his sons and was responsible for the disappearance of Sam’s own younger self.

Great.

Why was his life so complicated?

All other thoughts went out the window, though, when John rushed forward, slamming Sam the wall. “Who are you?” he shouted, gun cocked, and chills ran down Sam’s back.

There was that voice. Sam hadn’t realized how much he missed it.

“Dad?” he croaked, the word slipping out unbidden.

“What?!” John pressed closer, unsure of what he’d just heard. Sam shook himself; no, he had to play this cool. He couldn’t give anything away. Even if seeing his deceased father made his knees feel wobbly and his stomach clench. Even if each heartbeat was a little louder in his chest and all he wanted to do was open his arms and embrace John and never let go, never ever again.

Sam cleared his throat. “Ash,” he said more clearly, hoping the single syllable words were similar enough to pass as one and the same. “Ash Smith. I’m a hunter, like you. Look, I didn’t hurt any—“

John lifted Sam forward before shoving him hard against the wall again, forcing a small grunt out of Sam’s mouth. “Where’s Sammy?”

“I don’t know!” said Sam desperately. “Honestly, I don’t! I want to find whatever did this as much as you do, but—“

“No!” John shook his head adamantly. “You’re lying!”

“I’m really not—“

The fist came out of nowhere, and suddenly Sam was on the ground, eyes watering and nose bleeding. “Tell the truth!” demanded John. “What did you do with Sam?! _Where is my son?!”_ His voice cracked on the last syllable, and Sam could see the desperation in his eyes.

God, he missed him. _Dad_ , his heart cried out silently. _It’s me. I’m right here!_ But Sam knew that John couldn’t hear it. His father was dead. This man, here, this man who would do anything for his sons, was dead. He’d died doing what he’d always done: protecting his boys. Saving them. Bringing them back from the point of no return and sacrificing himself to do it. Sam had never said it out loud, but if Dean had died that day so many years ago, he would have been unable to continue and he would have died as well.

And now Dad thought he was a monster.

Sam raised his hands in surrender, trying slowly to back away from this furious ghost of his past. “I _don’t know_!” he said plaintively. He had no illusions that John would spare him; if his father thought this was the way to get his youngest back, he’d kill ‘Ash Smith’ in a heartbeat. And wouldn’t that be ironic? Wouldn’t Crowley just _love_ that?

But Sam didn’t know what to do. There was no way he could tell the truth. No way he’d be believed. So that meant lying to the two people he loved most, and hoping his own father wouldn’t kill him for it.

Basically, another day in the life of a Winchester.

“Listen, I’m sorry,” said Sam hoarsely as John raised his arm to inflict another blow. “I can’t prove anything, but I _swear_ I didn’t hurt your son!”

John shook his head, and Sam was startled to see that the man seemed to have tears in his eyes. At the same time, Sam realized that he too was crying.

“I don’t know what to—“ John’s voice broke and he lowered his arm. “Go,” he said quietly, gesturing towards the door. “Get out of here.”

Dean, who had been watching in horrified fascination the entire time, stepped forward. “But Dad, he hasn’t told us—“

“Shut up, Dean!” roared John, and Dean flinched back. John closed his eyes briefly as if re-gathering his strength, before turning back to Sam. “Go!” he cried. “Before I kill you!”

Sam picked himself up slowly and grabbed his jacket from the couch. Then he stumbled out the door to Dean’s parting shot of, “If we find out you hurt Sammy, we’ll hunt you down and kill you then!”

Then the door slammed behind him and Sam was all alone, stranded in the past, blood running from his nose and a bruise forming around his left eye. He had no weapons but a small knife and a flask of holy water. No phone and no one to call, anyway. No money to buy food, no car to drive him places, no places to go. No leads to take him home.

And, as he soon realized, no flannel shirt.

 

* * *

 

It was the muffled groan, which alerted Dean to his brother’s wakefulness. A small smile on his face, he decided to enjoy the sight of Sam wrenching himself back from the dreamworld. It was enjoyable on a normal day, but to again see little Sammy waking up…priceless.

“Howdy, partner.”

Sam started, jerking into sitting position so fast that Dean was afraid he might have given himself whiplash. “Whoa, there, tiger. How you feeling?” he moved to sit down on the bed, and Sam tried to scoot away from him.

“What do you want with me?” said Sammy loudly, eyes darting around for an escape root. Dean sighed. Why were they such paranoid little children?

“I told you. I’m your brother. I’m taking care of you.”

“You’re crazy! You’re not my brother!” Sam said, sliding off the bed and backing towards the door. “Why do you think that?! What are you?!"

Dean rolled his eyes. He got enough of grown-Sam’s drama without needing this crap. “Look, Sammy,” he said, standing. “I’m _Dean_. I know that sounds crazy, and it is, but we’re all hunters here, right? ‘Crazy’ is our life!”

Sam froze, hand on the doorknob. “How do you know I’m a hunter?”

“Same way I know that your birthday is May 2nd,” said Dean, crossing his arms smugly. “And that you hate broccoli. That your car is a 1967 Chevy Impala, and you drive around the country with Dad and me. There’s a weapons compartment under the trunk. You’ve been hunting ever since you were six months old and a demon killed Mom.” Dean stopped, inspecting his brother to see if he’d gotten the point across.

“Anyone could find out about those things, ” said Sam, but he sounded doubtful. “Tell me something only Dean would know.”

Dean sighed. “This necklace?” he said, taking said amulet off of his neck and showing it to Sam. “You gave it to me on Christmas when you were seven, the same night you found out about monsters. I haven’t taken it off since. You know, that was the Christmas I stole you chick gifts, wasn’t it?”

Sam dropped the knife he’d somehow procured and was hiding behind his back. It fell to the linoleum floor with a metallic clanking.

“ _Dean?_ ”

 

 

 

 


	6. Of Angels and Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which demons are fought and angels are telephoned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was supposed to post this like two weeks ago, wasn't I?
> 
> Hehe. Yeah, WHOOPS.
> 
> I'll give you a few chapters to make up for it.

**Then**

_“I’m, um…” Sam scrambled frantically for a believable alias. “Ash,” he finally spat out, thinking of his now-dead friend. “Ash…Smith.”_

_“Sammy’s missing.”_

_“Dammit! All right. Sit tight, son, I’ll be there by morning. Don’t let him out of your sight for one moment. Stay on guard, keep a weapon on you at all times, and don’t let him know you suspect anything. Be careful, Dean!”_

_The door swung open with a bang to reveal the gun-wielding figure of John Winchester._

_“What did you do with Sam?! Where is my son?!”_

_“I don’t know!”_

_“Go!” John cried. “Before I kill you!”_

_Sam stumbled out the door to Dean’s parting shot of, “If we find out you hurt Sammy, we’ll hunt you down and kill you then!”_

_“I’m your brother. I’m taking care of you.”_

_“You’re crazy! You’re not my brother!” Sam said, sliding off the bed and backing towards the door. “Why do you think that?! What are you?!"_

_“Tell me something only Dean would know.”_

_“You gave this necklace to me on Christmas when you were seven, the same night you found out about monsters.”_

_“Dean?”_

* * *

 

**Now**

“Wow.”

Sam sat on the bed with his older brother, stunned.

“Yeah.”

“How is that even possible?” Sam queried. “I mean, _time travel_? Seriously?”

Dean shrugged. “You get used to it.”

“Wait, you mean…does this happen to you a lot? And, um, you know, to me? Future me?”

“A couple times, yeah. There hasn’t been a trade-off before.”

“Wow,” Sam said, repeating his earlier statement. “Where’d you go? Uh…I mean _when_? And I guess it’d be when did _we_ go…or when _will_ we go…wait a second—“

Dean let out a low chuckle (and man, was his voice deep. When did that happen? And how come he was so tall?) and reached a hand out to ruffle Sam’s hair. “Don’t tie yourself in knots trying to figure it out. I find it’s best to just let it be.”

Sam gave a small smile and looked down at his hands. “Seriously though. Where?”

There was a sigh, and Sam looked sideways at his brother. “I think the less you know about your future, the better,” he said.

“But I’m here, aren’t I?” argued Sam. “So everything’s gone crazy anyway. What’re a few spoilers gonna do?”

Dean laughed, a full, real laugh this time. “You got a point there, Sammy. But I just don’t know…”

Sam really wanted to know, so he did the tried and tested age-old manipulation tactic. Cue puppy eyes.

“Please, Dean?”

The green eyes peered at him, before quickly darting away, looking anywhere but at his face, and Sam knew that he’d already won. “Oh, come on,” swore Dean. “Just when I’m starting to think you’ve outgrown that look, time travel! Great.”

“ _Please?_ ”

"Fine!" exclaimed his brother, throwing his hands up in the air. "Ok, so  _you_ don't do it very often."

"But I  _did_ get to do it."

"Really, just the one time."

Why was Dean avoiding the question? "Dean,  _where did I go?_ "

Dean sighed. "You...you get to meet…" he stopped.

"I get to meet  _who_ , Dean?"

"Mom."

"Oh," said Sam quietly, looking away. And then, "Did she like me?"

Dean rolled his eyes, but they were sad. “Of course she did,” he said. “You may be annoying, but apparently you have some redeeming qualities. Mom’s are like that. They don’t care if you’re a little twerp.”

Sam laughed and got up to look out the window. The world wasn’t all that different; guns and old food containers strewn about the motel room, the Impala parked outside, the sun beating down on another monster-filled day. Then a thought occurred to him.

“Hey, Dean? What do I look like when I’m all grown up?”

“Well,” said Dean, getting up and moving towards the small fridge. “You’ve got really long, girly hair, for starters.”

“What?!” Sam cried, whirling on him. “No way!”

“Yep. Shoulder-length, dark brown, all nice and wavy. You become a princess, Sampunzel.”

Sam picked up a crumpled shirt from where it lay strewn on the bed and bundled it up. Then he threw it at Dean’s head.

Dean put his hands up in surrender, a beer clasped in one of them. “Hey, I’m just letting you know the truth. I can pull up a picture if you want.”

Sam crossed his arms. “Yeah, do that. I won’t believe it otherwise.”

“Oo-kay,” laughed Dean, pulling out his phone (which was a bit like something out of Star Trek, honestly) and fiddling with it for a moment, before turning it around for Sam to see.

“Gimme that,” said Sam, grabbing the device and staring at the screen. On it was a picture of two men laughing as they clinked a pair of beer bottles together. One of them was Dean. The other….

“Dude, I’m _tall_!” Sam exclaimed. “When does that happen?”

“You mean when do you _really_ become a total pain?” asked Dean. “It starts when you’re twelvish. By the time you hit sixteen, you’re taller than me. By eighteen, you’re at six foot four.”

“Six _four?”_ gasped Sam. “Whoa. And dude, that hair isn’t _too_ bad.”

“Yeah, whatever, man. One night it is coming off in your sleep.”

With a contented sigh, Sammy sunk down onto the couch, before looking expectantly up at his brother, a more serious look in his eyes. “Dean, how are we gonna fix this? How are we gonna bring your Sam back and send me home?”

Dean moved to sit down next to him, taking a long sip of beer as he did so. “Not easily,” he said. “Time travel is supposed to be impossible.”

“Oh,” said Sam, a sinking feeling in his stomach. How was he supposed to get back to Dad? Where _was_ Dad in this time, anyway?

“ _But_ ,” said Dean, smirking. “Because I’m awesome, I’ve got an idea.”

A grin spread across Sammy’s face. “Really?”

“Hell, yeah. Say it with me: ‘Dean is awesome’.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling.

 

* * *

Sam drew in a gasping breath as he struggled out of yet another demon’s stranglehold.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanic potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta—“

He broke off as the demon slammed his against the wall, the corrupted soul releasing a bone-chilling scream. Sam grimaced, but slowly got to his feet. “Et secta diabolica. Ergo, draco mal—“

Another demon came up from behind and punched him hard in the head. Sam was thrown to the ground, his ears ringing and black dots dancing in his line of vision. Man, did he miss Ruby’s knife.

“Draco maledicte. Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire, te—“

The chokehold was back, and Sam’s spine met the wall again, so hard that the plaster cracked. The demon’s black eyes stared at him hatefully as it slowly squeezed the life from him.

It was like there was a beast inside his chest, a monster trying to claw its way up his throat. The monster needed air, and it wasn’t afraid to burn his lungs to escape. Sam’s vision began to dim, and he briefly thought how ironic it was for him to have survived so much, only to be killed by your everyday run-of-the-mill villain back during the time of his childhood.

And this time, Dean wasn’t there to save him. Dean was twenty-something years in the future, presumably with Sam’s younger self. It was an interesting paradox.

Then, just as Sam was beginning to realize that there really was no way out this time, a familiar voice finished the incantation.

“Te rogamus, audi nos!”

The demon threw back its head and released a loud scream, black smoke spiraling from its mouth. The body of the man it was possessing crumpled to the ground, long-since dead.

At least angels had the courtesy to heal their vessels of any wounds they received.

Sam fell to the ground, coughing and gasping, his vision slowly returning. With a low moan, he let his head roll back against the cold cement floor of the abandoned factory.

“Boy, you look like you’ve been run over by a steam roller. What happened to you?”

“Demons, Bobby,” said Sam with a weak chuckle, eyes closed. “Demons happened.”

* * *

 

“You have an angel on speed dial?”

Dean smiled smugly at the incredulous face staring up at him. “Sure do.”

“But….how? How are angels even real? I thought they were just stories! Wait, does that mean that God is real too? How about the rest of the bible? What are they like, angels? Have you met many? When did you find out about them? Do they actually have halos? Do they—“

“Hey, slow down!” said Dean, struggling to keep up with the once-familiar tide of questions. It’d been a while since Sammy had been this inquisitive, and in all honesty, he was enjoying it. He liked being the big brother again. He liked that Sam, this Sam, still believed in him. Still trusted him to solve all his problems. To be the superhero.

“Look, it’s a long story,” he said, pulling up Castiel’s number on his phone. “You should just know that most of the angels are real jerks. The one I’m calling just happens to be one of the good guys.

“Is—“

“Shush,” hushed Dean as he pressed the call button. The phone rang several times before dying out in an abrupt click.

Had Cas seriously just hung up on him?

Then the phone began to ring with the angel’s number, and Dean rolled his eyes before answering. “Hey.”

_“Dean, I apologize. I pressed the wrong button on this phone. Evidently the red button silences the call.”_

Dean sighed. “Whenever we have time, remind me to teach you how the damn thing works. Now listen, I need your help.”

 _“Of course_ ,” said the angel. “ _Where are you?”_

“Piney Plains Motel,” said Dean. “Small town outside of Richmond. Get here.”

“Dean.”

The hunter spun around at the word, and Sammy fell off the bed. “Holy—“ he yelped. “Where’d you…”

There in the middle of the room, in all his trench-coated glory, was Castiel. He cocked his head at Sam, brow furrowing above his cobalt-blue eyes. “Sam,” he said. “But not…this time’s Sam.” Confused, he turned back to Dean.

“Tell me what happened.”

 


	7. The Not-So Strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bobby is awesome (as per usual).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Not sure if I mentioned this earlier, but I don't edit my crap. Sorry.)

**Then**

_The Winchesters stared at him with undisguised horror as the room began to fill with a blindingly white light. "What did you do?!" shouted Sam._

_Crowley flashed a grin. "Have fun with this one, boys!"_

_"_ _You have an angel on speed dial?"_

_There in the middle of the room, in all his trench-coated glory, was Castiel. "Sam," he said. "But not…this time's Sam. Tell me what happened."_

_Sam stumbled out the door to Dean's parting shot of, "If we find out you hurt Sammy, we'll hunt you down and kill you then!"_

_The demon's black eyes stared at him hatefully as it slowly squeezed the life from him. Just when Sam was beginning to realize that there really was no way out this time, a familiar voice finished the incantation._

_"_ _Boy, you look like you've been run over by a steam roller. What happened to you?"_

_"_ _Demons, Bobby," said Sam with a weak chuckle, eyes closed. "Demons happened."_

* * *

 

**Now**

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" Bobby Singer stared down at the half-dead young man who lay on the floor before him. The kid opened his eyes slightly and peered up at him, his mouth forming a perfect 'o'.

"I…uh…" he tried to get to his feet, but stumbled, and Bobby caught him. Eyes narrowing, he noticed a dark red stain spreading across the boy's side, as well as the bruises forming on his jaw, around his eyes, and in stripes around his neck. His right arm seemed to be dislocated as well, and overall the kid looked like he'd been in a meat grinder.

"Take it easy, son," said Bobby, catching him before he could fall. "What were you doing takin' on a demon all on yer own? And how come you know me, when I'm pretty damn sure I've never seen you before?"

The young man laughed, then winced as if it had hurt him. Broken rib, maybe? Bruised, in any case. "It's kind of a long story," he said weakly.

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "I'll bet. Let's get you out of here first, shall we? Make sure know more demons show up. And I think you need some medical attention."

"Yeah..." said the man, trailing off as his head lolled back. Bobby rolled his eyes and hoisted him over his shoulder.

"I'm gettin' too old for this," he grumbled as he headed for his truck.

* * *

 

"So…you're an angel. An actual angel."

Cas nodded seriously. "Yes. My name is Castiel. I am an angel of the lord."

"And…do all angels looks like office workers?"

Dean sat on the couch, amusedly watching this intercourse between his brother and his angel. Sammy seemed awed by Cas, and Cas seemed intrigued by Sam's inquisitiveness. Rolling his eyes, he stood to interrupt them.

"All right, enough chit-chat," he said, popping the lid off a beer bottle and taking a swig. "Cas, can you reverse the spell?"

"No," said Cas. "This spell is irreversible except by the original caster. I'm afraid that unless you can convince Crowley to undo it, we are stuck with this Sam."

Dean sighed and took another drink. "Dammit. Fine. Can you take us back?"

Cas seemed surprised. "Take you back to this Sam's time? Both of you?"

Sam raised a hand. "Wait a second. You can time travel?"

"Yes, he can. That's beside the point. Cas, can you take us back?"

The angel squirmed. "Yes…" he said reluctantly. "But it would be difficult. And I would be weakened."

"Right, like the time we followed Anna," said Dean, remembering that disastrous event. "Ok, well, we survived, didn't we?"

Cas stood and adjusted his trench coat. "Perhaps it would be simpler for me to bring only Sam," he began, but Dean shook his head adamantly.

"No. I'm going with you. If something goes wrong, I need to be there."

"Uh…is something likely to go wrong?" interjected Sam. "And how bad is 'wrong'?"

Dean ignored him studiously. "You said it yourself it would drain your batteries. If you get there and you're all out of juice, who's gonna protect Sammy?"

"I'm not completely useless you know!"

Cas sighed. "Fine. I can take you back. It may be a while before we find him though. He could be anywhere in the past. Sam," he said, turning to the boy, who looked relieved to finally be included. "What was the exact date you were taken from?"

"Um…" said Sam, brow furrowing. "February 17, 1993. Afternoonish, I think. Do you need, like, the exact time? Because I have no idea…"

Cas shook his head. "No. The correct date is adequate. Here, take my hand."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," said Dean. "Wait a second. Not right  _now_."

"Why not?" asked Cas, confused. "Dean, we must reach Sam as soon as possible, before the past is altered any more than is repairable."

Dean crossed his arms. "We need to pack, for starters. I'm not heading back there without being prepared for everything. And I'm sure Sammy here is tired. Maybe we should wait until tomorrow? Rest up?" he shot his brother a meaningful look, as was met with an indignant expression.

"I'm fine!" said Sam, getting to his feet stubbornly. "I wanna go home, now!"

Dean grinned. "Atta boy," he said. "Still need to grab some stuff though."

"Yeah, okay," Sam shrugged. "What are we bringing?"

* * *

 

His everything hurt.

Sam blearily blinked his eyes open, wincing as the light momentarily blinded him. Groaning, he sat up and looked about him.

Metal walls. Mildly inappropriate posters of women. Books. Guns. Fan above him. Devil's Trap on the floor. He was currently sitting on a rickety metal bed on the round wall.

Bobby's panic room.

_His_ Bobby, or past Bobby?

This question was soon answered as the door creaked open, and the man himself walked in. "Oh," he said in his unique accent. "Yer awake."

The hair slightly browner, the lines on his face slightly fewer, the clothes he wore slightly cleaner. Past Bobby.

"Uh…hey," said Sam, massaging his forehead. "I…how did I get here?"

Bobby rolled his eyes and grabbed a glass of water from the nearby table. "I brought ya here, ya idjit," he said, handing Sam the drink.

Sam took a deep swig, the liquid immediately relieving the dryness of his throat. It was oddly stale, though, and from that and the look that Bobby was giving him, he knew it was holy water.

"I'm not a demon," he said, raising the glass meaningfully.

"Well, can't hurt to check," said Bobby, taking the glass back and refilling it with fresh, cold water. "You got a name?"

"Uh, yeah," said Sam, blinking away the lights that still swam before his eyes. "I'm S—Ash."

"Don't you lie to me, boy," threatened Bobby. "What's it actually?"

Sam sighed, a small smile playing on his face. "Sam," he said. There were a lot of Sams. Couldn't hurt, right?

"Huh. That's weird. I know a Sam who looks a bit like you. Same eyes, if ya know what I mean."

"Oh yeah?"

Bobby nodded. "Younger, though. Boy's barely ten years old, and already hunting."

Sam didn't know what to say to that. "Sounds dangerous," he finally came up with.

Bobby laughed dryly. "You betcha. Apparently his dad's gone and lost him, too. Idjit called in a panic last night. That's why I was out there to save yer neck."

"About that," said Sam. "Thanks."

"Is' no problem."

"No, really," Sam insisted. "Thank you. If you hadn't shown up, I don't know if I'd have gotten out of there. I've had a rough couple of days."

"Boy, why were you out there by yerself?" Bobby said, turning on him. "When I came in, there was more than just one demon there. How many'd you exorcise?"

"Uh…five? Six?"

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "Why'd ya have so many on you?"

"It's…" Sam laughed. "It's a long story. I guess they just really don't like me."

"Hm," said Bobby suspiciously. "Sam, lemme tell you how this is gonna work. Yer gonna tell me who exactly you are, and why you've got a hoard of demons on yer tail. Then, if I like the answer, we'll go get something into that stomach of yours. If I don't like the answer, then I'll shoot ya. Got it?"

Sam swallowed. "No, really, it's a long,  _long_  story."

"I got time."

"You won't believe it."

"Try me."

 


	8. Notice

Hey guys.

Um, this isn't a chapter.

You may have noticed I haven't posted in a while. I think I owe you an explanation.

My interests are extremely fickle. This means I'll be very into a certain fandom for a while, and then my interests will move on to another fandom and I just won't care about the old fandom so much anymore. Often, my interests will circle back again, and that's why I haven't said anything yet, but it's been a while and they haven't so I'm officially putting this story on hiatus.

I know a lot of you are going to be upset, and I'm really sorry, but I can't put time and energy into a story I know longer love.

This story is not up for adoption. I don't feel comfortable putting my work in another person's hands, especially when there's some small chance of continuation in the future. I'm not going to delete it either. So this fic is going to stagnate for a while.

Thank you so much for your continued interest. I really appreciate it and I'm so sorry I couldn't deliver. However, even if I'm not still writing this, I am still writing. If you want, click on my profile and check out my current stories. I'm trying to stick to shorter fics so this doesn't happen again, so most of my recent stories have an ending already or have an ending coming.

Again, thank you for reading and thank you for your patience. I'm very sorry.

 


	9. Second Notice

I'ma be real real with you guys.

This story is never getting finished.

I know, I know, and I'm sorry. But the truth is that I started it without a plan and now I don't even _like_  Supernatural anymore. I actually am starting to actively dislike it. I won't go into details about why, because that won't make anyone happy, but just know that it is highly unlikely that I will ever return to the show and almost impossible that I'll ever finish this story. I have matured as a writer and as a person, and my writing style has changed drastically. Me trying to finish this would just be torturing myself. However, me just letting it sit without telling you would be torturing  _you._ So, as it stands, I am officially discontinuing this story.

I won't delete it. Maybe you've enjoyed it so far and want to enjoy it again. I don't know. But it won't be getting new chapters.

That said, I did write several chapters more than this before I gave up. They are posted on fanfiction.net. I told myself I was going to edit and post them, but I don't have the energy or the time. If you want, you can head over there and finish reading what I wrote.

I am really sorry about this. I feel bad, but I am parting ways officially with this story and this fandom. I am still writing, though, if you care to check out any of my current projects; I personally believe my writing has improved by a lot. If any of you like anime, well, that's the hole I fell down. 

Once again, I apologize, and I thank you for your support. 

~thepensword


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